The Pulse of Freedom
by ina-meishou
Summary: They fear blood, and so they should.


The stones of the prison are rough hewn here. In the upper levels, the dormitories and labs and halls of the prison proper, the stones are smooth with the polish of generations of feet. In those levels, our jailors like to keep a pretense of normality. There the hold is never a prison, always a sanctuary, a place of safety from the harsh world.

To suggest otherwise is to invite punishment.

But here, deep in the catacombs dug into the rocky isle, the stones are rough, rarely touched and seldom thought of.

There is no way to know how long I have been down here, other than the fact that I still draw breath. Not much longer though, before this room of our prison becomes my tomb. Food and water come rarely, and never enough. And in this place, my connection to the fade is barely open to me, nothing but a trickle of power.

Not nearly enough to keep me whole more than a few more days.

Even as I think this though, there comes the soft scrape of slippered feet against stone. Someone comes, a mage, by the sound of the steps.

That should be impossible, the doors to this place are bound by Templar seals, and after my own break in, the rods of fire will surely be watched carefully.

But when the rattle of keys fades from the lock, and the heavy wood door creaks open, it is a mage that stands before me.

"Alim? Alim Surana?"

The candle he holds casts barely enough light to make out the shape of his robes, and his voice is so quiet and hushed I can't recognize it, but I manage a grunted yes in response. He shuffles closer and tosses a bundle at my feet., it's a clean robe, well mended, but I leave it alone and snatch at what it holds.

Full water-skins, and food. A thick loaf of bread, half a cheese wheel, and a bulging sack of dried meat.

It's hard to pace myself, to take small bites and sips, but I do. Food is too precious to waste sicking up.

"It's time Alim," the mage says, his voice still hushed nearly beyond understanding, "Uldred will move in a few hours."

I very nearly spill the remaining water choking. Surely I could not have been here so long. Uldred had been years away from action when I was caught. Still quietly secreting away runes and weapons and loyalties.

"Ha..." my voice gives out, and I take another slow sip of water before trying again. "How, how long?"

I barely recognize the rasp as my own voice, but the mage understands. This close, I think I recognize him as Eadric. A tiny fellow, easy to miss.

If Greagor knew half the things he'd inadvertently told us by not noticing the tiny mage off in the corner, he'd probably pull his beard out.

"You've been here nearly two months Alim. Truth is, we weren't sure you were still alive, but Uldred said we had to be sure, couldn't leave our own to rot."

"Thanks" I could say more, I could ask why Uldred wants us to move before we're ready, ask how many of us are going to die today who don't have to.

I won't though. I'd follow Uldred to the Black City itself if it meant freedom from the prison.

I pull on the robe and snatch up the rest of the food, I can eat as I walk, and if I want any chance of seeing the light of the sun before I die, I'd better get moving.

The artifacts stored down here should help even the odds.

My lips split into a grin even as I shove another chunk of cheese between my teeth. It will be so very good to watch a Templar scream.

O0O

The moment I step through the door, everything leaps into clarity.

It feels like wool had been stuffed into my ears, my eyes, by nose, my head. Everything looks sharper, I can hear the thud of Eadric's heart, feel every grain and seam of the strange staff I took from the basements.

I can feel the fade, hovering just out of sight, all around me.

Glorious.

I stumble as I push open the final door and enter the prison proper. The only one to see me is a templar hurrying past with sword drawn. I can hear the intake of breath as the man recognizes me. His steps shift and he charges. The chant rolling off his tongue seems to settle over the world, resisting change, resisting the pull of the Fade.

Not fast enough though. Prepared, a Templar can hold off almost any mage, only the most potent casters can break through the wall of their trained certainty. And I'm not nearly among that company.

But with the bastard surprised, the wall of faith has barely begun to slide between my and my power when I reach into the fade and draw in the formless chaos of the realm of dreams.

The wall shatters, the templar stumbles, and I form a plane of air that cuts through his belly.

The shrieks will bring more of them, but that's all to the good. I stand in a small doorway, with open space stretching before me. They cannot come on my by stealth.

It's a good place to defend, and if I fall, a fine place to die.

Two more step into the room, steps solid and the chant of denial already firm about them.

This time, I reach not to the fade, but to another source. A lesser source, in some ways, finite, slippery.

But in others...their armor runs red as I call the blood from their veins and draw it to pool about my feet.

They thought Jowan impressive. A fumbling novice, barely understanding what forces he meddled with.

They fear Blood, and so they should.

Let them come. Let them Die.

O0O

The apologist corpse feels frail as I shift my weight onto it's chest and jerk the end of my staff free from it's stomach.

Eadric vanished some time ago, doubtless there are a dozen templars and apologists dead before they noticed it. The man is frustrating like that.

It's been about an hour since I had to abandon my nice doorway, another mage tried to collapse it on my head. He took a fireball to the chest for the opportunity.

Still, I've not had nearly the trouble I'd been expecting. It seems a good number of the templars are missing entirely, along with some of the more powerful apologist mages. Doubtless there's something important going on, perhaps an Orlesian invasion, or those rumors of Darkspawn massing to the south.

Regardless, it's a godsend, Uldred must not be mad after all. Once we take the tower, even Wyne or Fedwick would be hard pressed to root us out. We'll have a strong base, deep stores, and good wells.

Seize the day, as Archon Julius once said.

A figure in a robe rounds the corner ahead of me. I'm heading towards the top of the tower, and there is only one hallway, winding it's way through each floor of the tower to the single stairwells that connect them. It's a terrible mess when you need to get somewhere fast, but it makes it very convenient for the templars whenever they feel they need to clear the tower. They can just start from the bottom and work their way up, killing anyone they feel is tainted along the way.

No need to watch the flanks or rear.

Now, it serves our purposes as well. The templars and their apologist dogs are scattered throughout the tower, and any attempt for them to group together means they must fight through our own numbers.

I've already passed more dead than I've slain.

It's not until I reach the top of the tower, in the harrowing chamber, that things start to go wrong.

The woman shrieking before Uldred is one of ours, though she spent her time playing a very convincing supporter of the aequiterians. The entire room is shrouded in Fadehaze, the veil is gossamer thin, and all of it is filled with spirits.

Pride spirits, rage spirits, desire spirits, sloth spirits.

The apologists would call them demons.

One of them, a great brute of the thing in the shape of a bear, is twisting, it's boundaries overlapping with those of the woman. Her flesh bubbles and cracks as she writhes in the grip of a pair of twisted men I barely recognize as Hamell and Gunter, twins, and both of them Isolationist.

And Uldred is standing there, arms upraised, twisting flows of fadestuff into the poor bitch.

He's already gone. I can see the marks of possession. Whatever spirit did this must be powerful indeed. Uldred is among the most powerful magi I've ever heard of, much less known. He can beat down a Templar's walls

I could stop and talk with him, try and bring him to his senses, help him cast the spirit out. But if I failed, he would swat me like a fly. Already, I can feel the spirits shifting, they know I am here, and the hunger to take my form.

It is a decision of moments. Slim hope of freedom held against a certainty of eternal chains. Chained in my own body, no less.

The lance of power I call is tiny, no thicker than the shaft of a quill, but behind it is all the power I can draw, from the fade, from my blood, everything but the last scraps of power that are my life.

It is not enough. One hand casually gestures at me, and my lance stops inches from the back of Uldred's head.

"Do not be hasty child. Your turn will come soon enough."

And then he turns, slowly, his face slackens, and I notice the knife sticking from his ribs. His hand falls, my lance of power drives through the side of his head, and he drops to the floor.

The veil snaps shut once more, the barrier between the world and the chaos growing thick and hard. Spirits screech and scream, and vanish, pushed back now that the power that had cloaked the wardings of this room was gone.

I pull the last remnant of power from Uldred's blood, more than enough to firm my legs under me and ease my heaving chest.

Eadric pulls his knife from Hamell's chest, Gunter and the woman are already laid out on the floor, and casually cleans it on a sleeve.

"Well," he says, "That was an adventure."

It's only then that I notice the rest of the room. All along the walls are templars and mages, sitting bound hand and foot, watching me.

Irving is there, and Greagor, and the leaders of the other fraternities, more than a hundred all told. Some I recognize from our secret meetings. Some I recognize as our most dangerous foes. Some look uncertain, some hopeful, some lost.

My eyes settle on Irving. In the end, it is him I'll have to deal with. Irving has always had sympathies for our cause, but he's never approved of going so far. He won't accept this, won't accept what needs doing.

I raise my staff, and he shakes his head sadly. It almost hurts, when I tear the life from him and take it for my own.

A good two thirds of the mages start to struggle, some of them supposedly on our side. Behind me, I hear more people enter the room, but Eadric will watch my back. Now that I've begun, I can't bring myself to stop. I might never find it in me to start again.

I turn to the next mage. The templars can wait, they will be long in death, and raise my staff.

"Join us, brother?" I ask. His face is stark terror, his mouth beyond speech as he gasps, but he shakes his head.

I reach, and pull.


End file.
